


Prince of...Bears?

by zopyrus



Category: The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Father-Daughter Relationship, Gen, Giant Cats, giant bears
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-27
Updated: 2014-08-27
Packaged: 2018-02-14 23:21:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,258
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2206884
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zopyrus/pseuds/zopyrus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Gilraen is getting too old for made-up stories, so Dírhael tells her and her brother a true one.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Prince of...Bears?

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Suzelle](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Suzelle/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Prince of Cats](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1324492) by [Suzelle](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Suzelle/pseuds/Suzelle). 



> For the lovely Suzelle, who asked for a story where Dírhael meets Beorn. Tarcil is her creation entirely; and my characterizations of Dírhael and Gilraen are inspired by her fic as well.

“There’s no such thing as a giant talking cat,” said Gilraen.

Dírhael blinked. Once upon a time, the Tale of Tevildo had been his secret weapon: the perfect way to get his daughter to settle down and listen quietly when all else failed. He had thought to use it on Tarcil, as well; but in the intervening years, Gilraen had turned into a teenager and seemed determined to ruin story time for everyone.

Fortunately, life in the Wild had taught Dírhael to think on his feet.

“Perhaps not,” he countered. “But the Prince of Cats was not really a cat. He was a shapeshifter. And before you try and tell me there are no such things as shapeshifters, young lady, I must tell you that I have seen one with my very own eyes.”

Dírhael winked at his son. He hoped Tarcil was not too annoyed by his older sister’s interruption—but teaching them both the value of compromise might be no bad thing. 

“I will save the Tale of Tevildo for another time, little man. Tonight, I would like to share a story that will appeal even to the most skeptical members of our family. Is that all right with you?”

Tarcil nodded, wide-eyed. 

“And you, daughter?”

Gilraen shrugged sheepishly, but she sat down beside him, arms crossed. Dírhael thought about putting an arm around her, but decided not to push it. Now that everyone was settled, he started again.

“When I was a young man—just a little older than Gilraen, here—my duties as a Ranger took me far and wide. Sometimes, my friends and I travelled to Bree, or even further, to the Old Forest, and the land of the Halflings. And sometimes we took the old Dwarf roads, past Imladris, over the Misty Mountains, and into the lands beyond.”

Some of the adventures that had befallen Dírhael and his comrades on such journeys were not fit for children’s ears; indeed, some of his comrades had never returned. But after years of bedtime stories, he was adept at choosing which details to hint at, and which to leave out.

“One summer, just as we were thinking of returning home for the harvest, my friends and I strayed into a very strange land indeed. The woods were well-kept, almost like a garden, and full of animals: squirrels, rabbits, deer, you name it.”

“Were there badgers?” asked Tarcil, eagerly.

“Yes,” Dírhael assured him, although he had not marked it at the time. “There were definitely badgers.”

Gilraen sniffed in a superior sort of way. Dírhael pretended not to notice.

“Now, we had been journeying for a long time. We had started to run out of the waybread your mother had made for us; and we were very hungry. So we set traps for some of the animals, thinking that we might fill our bellies before we began the long trek home. But a strange thing happened. Every time we set a trap, something found it—and destroyed it, before we could catch a single thing!”

“Were you being followed by orcs?” asked Gilraen, suddenly interested.

“An excellent question—and one we asked each other, at first. But orcs are not very subtle: they would surely have attacked us outright. To settle the question, we decided to stay up one night, to see if we could catch a glimpse of whatever creature was following us.”

“Did you disguise yourselves?” asked Tarcil, eagerly.

“No, not this time,” admitted Dírhael. “We simply climbed some of the well-tended trees. For a long time, there was nothing to see. I had to stick my knuckles in my eyes to stay awake, and to keep myself from falling. But at last, our patience was rewarded: in the depths of night, illuminated by the merest sliver of moon, we saw the figure of a huge black bear, walking on his hind legs. He sniffed out each and every one of our traps, and broke them up with his front paws.”

“Were you scared?”

“Not a bit! At least, not until the bear finished breaking up the traps,” said Dírhael. “But then he looked up into the trees, straight into my eyes—and that scared me. There was something human about his face.”

“He saw you?” breathed Gilraen.

“He did,” said Dírhael. “He saw me, and growled low, like a warning, and disappeared into the night. Next morning, we packed up our things as quick as we could and went back over the mountains.”

“Wait,” said Gilraen, suspiciously. “I thought you said this story was about a shapeshifter. But all you saw was a bear!”

Dírhael shrugged. “Think what you like,” he said. “But I know what I saw. I asked Mithrandir about it, much later. Do you both remember him?”

“He knows how to make fireworks!” said Tarcil.

“He is friends with Lord Arathorn,” Gilraen added, importantly. “Sometimes he advises Lord Arador, and the captains’ council.”

“And do you trust his opinion, daughter?”

Gilraen nodded. “Very much,” she said. “He hasn’t spoken to me often, but he seems to know everything.”

Dírhael smiled at both of his children.

“He might not know everything,” he warned them. A little hero worship could go a long way. “But he is one of the wisest men I’ve ever met, and he has travelled more widely than the bravest Dúnadan. Even the Elves summon him to their councils. When I told Mithrandir the story of the bear, he told me the meaning of it. There is an ancient line of Men, as old as the Dúnedain, or perhaps even older, dating back to the years before Beleriand was drowned. These Men—and their women, too, I imagine—have the power to take the shapes of bears. They are forgotten, in most of the world—but so are we, and we are real enough.”

He poked his son, to prove how real they were, and Tarcil giggled.

“Did Mithrandir claim you had met one of these bear people?” asked Gilraen.

“Indeed he did,” said Dírhael. “And he has walked among them, and even befriended some of them. So if you do not believe me, you will have to take it up with him.”

Tarcil yawned, but Dírhael was not offended. The story was over; and for once, it was easy for him to send his youngest child off to bed.

Gilraen lingered.

“What about Tevildo?” she asked. “Did you ask Mithrandir about him, too?”

Dírhael smirked, and pushed his daughter’s shoulder playfully.

“Not even I would trouble him with such nonsense!”

Gilraen laughed in surprise.

“But even though it is nonsense, you should not spoil it for your brother,” he added. “It is a long time before you will have children of your own, but when you do, I think you will understand the value of a light-hearted story.”

“Even if it is not true?”

When she raised her eyebrows like that, she looked exactly like her mother.

“Maybe especially then. So many of the true stories in this world are full of Doom. If we make up a few to please ourselves, what is the harm?”

“I guess there is none,” she said. She had such a beautiful smile—when she chose to use it.

His little daughter was growing up, Dírhael thought. She could not take refuge in stories forever: but he would teach her their value, if he could.

“Now, go to sleep,” he told her gruffly. “And dream of giant cats!”

He kissed her cheek. Gilraen rolled her eyes, and went off to bed.


End file.
